Weakness
by roxierocks
Summary: Harry has a nightmare and Severus reveals his own...You and Me Series 5


disc: don't own it (still)

warning: it's slash, if you don't like it, don't read it

a/n: thanks sooooooo much for all you reviews on "Discretion". sorry it took me ten million years to write this, but i hope you won't hold it against me! for those of you who reviewed asking me to write more chapters, all theses are one shots, but if you read the rest in the series then it's all kind of linked. i'm planning on writing a christmas-themed story in this series sometime very soon (as it's nearly Christmas!) so look out for that, and in the meantime, enjoy! 

You shoot upright in bed, gasping for air, your hands clawing at your throat as remnants of your dream still cling to your subconscious. Images flit across your mind; flashes of green light, a cold laugh, a gently swaying veil…

It's too much.

With a strangled cry, you launch yourself in the direction of the bathroom, vomit climbing into your mouth and your stomach heaving in painful spasms as you fall to your knees in front of the toilet. It hurts and burns as the unhappiness that haunts you even in sleep comes spewing from your mouth, choking you, forcing tears to gather behind closed eyelids.

And when it's over, you have only the strength to rest your forehead on the cool, white porcelain as you try to fight a wave of vulnerability that threatens to engulf you.

He's there.

You don't look, but you can feel him behind you, watching you, and when you do look you immediately wish you hadn't.

He's leaning against the doorframe, face unreadable, looking as close to casual as he can ever be.

At that moment you hate him. Hate him for seeing you in your weakness when he never shows his.

He doesn't speak, but then neither do you as you flush the toilet, lurch to the sink and brush your teeth with disjointed, savage motions, hands shaking, leaning over to take deep, nausea filled breaths.

When you turn, he is right in front of you. 

You didn't hear him cross the room, but then you never do. He moves as silently and swiftly as the shadows themselves.

He reaches out and brushes the hair aside on your forehead, tracing your scar with an intimately gentle touch.

"Does it hurt?" he asks softly.

You don't reply, don't trust your voice, instead nod your head, aware of his fingers, still touching your skin.

They seem to move without his knowledge, exploring your face, stroking your cheek, but only with the lightest of touches. They trace your lips, and you find yourself yielding to his touch, leaning into him, only vaguely aware of his arm lacing around your back to steady you.

"Stay strong."

The words are whispered against your ear, and you imagine them infiltrating you, filling your body until the only thing that is keeping you alive is his breath.

"I'm sorry."

His hand is under your chin, forcing you to look into his eyes.

Amid the black depths you can see a silver glint of concern. Concern for you.

"Never apologise for your weaknesses. They are a part of who we are. They are what makes us human."

"Not you," you reply. "You don't have any weaknesses."

A glimmer of a smile tugs at his lips. He brushes at the hair that is falling in your eyes, lingering on the black strands. 

"I assure you I do."

Then he is turning away in his usual brisk manner, leaving you with a fizzing in your stomach that is completely unconnected to your recent brush with last night's dinner.

You follow him back into the bedroom, then through to the living room where he gestures you to a chair by the empty fireplace. The flames spring to life with a gesture of his hand, and you're drawn to the warmth, lost amongst the dancing tongues of fire as you struggle against a lingering image from your dream, the very one you wish most to forget; a worn stone arch, a fluttering veil, a dark pair of eyes, frozen in surprise as their owner falls, back, back… 

A hand appears in front of your face, breaking the trance and banishing the distress of your nightmares. You stare stupidly at the glass held before you. It is short and wide and full of amber liquid.

You look at him, and he raises an eyebrow.

"Would you like me to stand here all night?"

You blush and take the glass, as he settles into the chair opposite, his own glass in hand. He takes a sip, eyes closing in brief relief as the drink moves down his throat.

You're staring.

But you can't help it. Everything about him fascinates you. He's like a drug.

His eyes meet yours and he scowls slightly.

"As enthralling as I am, Potter, I would ask you not to gape at me with your mouth open at such an unattractive angle. It is quite disconcerting."

You hastily close your mouth, fighting your second blush in two minutes.

Damn him. How does he always know exactly the right words to disarm you?

He looks pointedly at your glass, clutched in your unsteady hands, the drink inside untouched.

You raise it hastily to your lips and take a huge gulp-only to spit it back out a moment later, coughing and spluttering in a decidedly unappealing manner.

"Urgh.What the hell is that?" you ask.

"Firewhisky, Potter."

Is it your imagination, or is he smiling?

You study him through slightly watering eyes and scowl.

Definitely not your imagination.

"I'm glad you find all this so amusing," you snap, slamming your glass down on the redwood table and marching into the bedroom.

Very mature.

You sit on the bed, stewing, until he follows you.

"For Merlin's sake Potter. Stop being so ridiculous."

You leap off the bed, eyes blazing, fists clenched and whirl to face him.

"MY NAME IS HARRY!"

He passes a weary hand over his eyes. 

"We are not going to have this argument again."

"Why not?" you yell. "Because you said so? Because we always have to do things your way?"

"Bloody hell," he snaps, letting loose a sudden flood of anger. "I am sorry you've had a bloody nightmare, but that is no reason to bloody take it out on me."

"I'm not," you shout, knowing perfectly well that you are. 

"Then why the hell are you so angry with me?"

"Because you don't know!" you scream, fuelled by a feeling of perfect injustice from the world. "You don't know what it's like waking night after night, seeing the same faces again and again, seeing him-"

"YES I DO." 

You stop mid rant, shocked into silence by the unexpected roar.

He takes a deep breath, then repeats it, more quietly.

"Yes I do."

Silence falls between you, in which you look anywhere but at him, anywhere to avoid the raw truth in his eyes.

"I do have nightmares," he says softly. "And every time I see faces. I see pain and death and…him."

He pauses and you look at him, a splinter nudging your heart at the grief written in the lines on his face, the lines that suddenly seem so pronounced against the colorless skin. 

You are opening wounds which have never been seen by another person.

You understand this, and cannot bear to see his pain, cannot bear to be the cause of it, so you go to him, putting your arms around his neck and resting your head on his chest.

"I love you," you whisper.

You feel him stiffen, but he does not push you away as you expected.

Instead he sighs and draws you closer.

"No you don't," he says. "You are infatuated. There is a difference."

You pull back to look at him, feeling a vague annoyance.

"I know there's a difference, and I know what it is. What's more I know what I'm feeling and it isn't just an infatuation."

He studies you for a moment, as if he's looking for an answer to an unknown question, his black eyes searching your face.

"You are a mystery to me," he whispers, so softly you almost don't hear it.

He's as much a mystery to you as you are to him, but you do not say this, as he is already sliding back into bed and you feel, somehow, as if he has just revealed something oddly intimate and personal.

You slip between the sheets, shivering in the sudden realisation that it is extremely cold down in the dungeons at the ungodly hour of 3am.

He is facing the opposite wall, his back to you, eyes closed already no doubt, but this doesn't deter you. You carefully wrap your arms around him from behind, fitting your bodies together like two pieces of a jigsaw.

For a moment he doesn't react, but then you feel his fingers winding around yours, a surprisingly intimate gesture that sends a flood of warmth through your entire being.

You are drifting into pleasant slumber when a picture of the fire flickers across your satiated mind, shattering the peace.

"Severus."

He doesn't reply. You doubt he's already asleep; trying to ignore you more likely.

"Severus."

Still nothing.

"Severus!" You give him a bit of a shake this time.

"Oh for heaven's sake what is it?"

"We left the fire on," you mutter, a little perturbed by the anger in his voice

You hear him take a deep, calming breath.

"I am a wizard," he says from between clenched teeth. "Do you really think I would allow my fire to burn the whole castle down?"

You decide the question's probably rhetorical, and therefore best left unanswered.

You close your eyes, trying to summon the peaceful sleepiness that had drenched you only moments before.

"Severus."

He sighs loudly.

"Potter, I swear to Merlin I am going to hang you upside down from the Astronomy tower if you do not let me get some sleep."

He pauses.

"What is it?"

You smile slightly.

"Are your nightmares your weakness?" you ask, half terrified he'll hang you from the Astronomy tower anyway for crossing the invisible line that seems to exist between you both.

He pauses for a moment in contemplative silence.

"No," he says finally. "They used to be, but then I realised that they were only images, reflections of something real. It doesn't, however, mean they are any more pleasant." 

You turn this over in your mind, letting it drift into your conscious, storing it away for further scrutiny when you will be able to deal with it. 

"What is your weakness?" you ask softly.

To your surprise he laughs slightly.

"I have many, as do we all."

You sigh impatiently.

"But what's your biggest weakness?"

"What's yours?"

Your biggest weakness? You've never really thought about it before.

Those frozen eyes flash across your mind again. 

"Doing anything for someone I love," you say softly

His thumb strokes yours.

"Then that is something we have in common."

Your fingers entwine, squeezing tightly.

"Perhaps," he whispers, "it can also be considered a strength." 

You smile. Perhaps it can.


End file.
